


Mausoleum Skin

by MerKat



Series: MerKat RPs [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha!Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BAMF!John, BAMF!Sherlock, Biting, Blow Jobs, Bonding, Claiming, Developing Relationship, First Meetings, Friends to Lovers, Insecure!John, Jealous!John, Kissing, Knotting, Licking, Light Angst, Light Angst and Smut, M/M, Magic!John, Magic!Sherlock, Magical Realism, Magical Tattoos, Marking, Mating, Minor Violence, Mounting, Moving Tattoo(s), Omega!John, Omegaverse, Pheromones, Possessive Behaviour, Possessive!Sherlock, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scenting, Smut, Tattooed!John, Tattoos, aulock, bottom!John, injured!John, magiclock, ptsd!john, tattooed!Sherlock, tattoolock, top!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-16 21:50:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2285658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MerKat/pseuds/MerKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even the haze of an omega’s heat isn’t enough to distract alphas from tattoos that don’t move like they should, something John learns the hard way, courtesy of the bullet wound in his shoulder. It necessitates a trip to the apothecary’s for suppressants, a trip that leads John to something he never expected: an alpha interested in him, even if it is only a flatshare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock frowned as he reached for a vial high on the apothecary's shelves, and it was second nature by now to ensure his cuffs stayed tight around his wrists. For all the magic abound in the world, things that confused people also scared them. And for the alpha to have tattoos cover nearly his entire body, from his neck to his wrists and ankles, wasn't entirely unusual, it was far from common but it was known to happen, but the fact that they didn't seem to move or change was. He had learned early on that getting his first tattoo at age three (scrolls with vague scribbles from wrists to elbows when his then-beloved brother Mycroft introduced him to spellbooks) was not normal, and having just short of a full-body tattoo before he even left primary school was not normal, and that his tattoos not frequently moving or changing size was not normal. He'd been bullied as a child and treated with fear as an adult, sometimes to the point that he'd been thrown from flats and shops, and as this particular shop seemed to have the bees wings he required for an experiment, he was less than keen to be evicted because the shopkeeper was scared of an alpha with apparently-still tattoos. So, as was habit, he kept them out of sight.

John moved through once-familiar London, leaning on his cane. He needed to find a job, and soon. But there was a lot of prejudice against omegas, plus people could feel the damage by way of his broken and nearly unusable magic. His tattoos hadn't really moved since he got shot. The tattoo of a heart on his chest that marked him as a surgeon once beat at a rhythm all it’s own. These days, he might catch a glimpse movement every few days. _Broken_. The tiny room he rented was crowded with the cheapest alchemy equipment he could find. _Alchemy_. An adult wasn’t supposed to rely on alchemy for their magic. Only children and the few rare Mundanes did that. John had never been a mundane, even if he’d only ever had average magic, at least he’d had some.

With a sigh, John pushed open the door. His heat should be coming in the next week or so and he needed something to help him through. He'd tried finding alphas when he first came back, but scars and motionless tattoos freaked them all out. So he'd dealt with his short monthly heats all on his own. A tall, dark-haired alpha was reaching for something on a high shelf. John froze as he saw him knock it off by accident. Once a simple spell would have stopped the glass from shattering on the floor, but now no words came.

The alpha's eyes snapped to the side at the motion of the front door opening. A blue-eyed blond man (omega, military) took a halted, limping step forward as his hand raised and his mouth parted, as if he were about to cast a spell. Instead, the omega froze halfway through the motion as the vial crashed to the floor. The quick reaction, lack of actual spell, and the cane said 'invalidated; magic broken by injury'. Before he could do or say anything, the omega's outstretched hand began to tremble and he dropped it, face flaming and chin held high as he did an about-face and walked away. Ignoring the mess on the floor and rather curious, Sherlock first watched and then followed, wondering as to why a grown man who clearly had no children would even bother with an apothecary. How broken could one's magic become to be forced to resorting to early primary school methods? And then he saw what ingredients the man was picking up and it only piqued his curiosity further. Even as 'damaged' as the man appeared, he still smelled like an omega, better than most Sherlock had met, even, and so, why would he need magical assistance dealing with a heat?

John was aware of the alpha tracking his movements. He sighed and turned, waving his cane at him. "Whatever you think you want from me, I'm not interested." Christ the alpha had gorgeous eyes. And smelled amazing, even from here. His heart twisted in his chest as he forced himself to look away, knowing he'd never have an alpha like that.

"I would think a man stuck in a pension flat that requires two buses to the city would prefer a low-cost flatshare closer to the city's centre. I had also thought an army man may be interested in being a detective's assistant. But perhaps I was mistaken," Sherlock said smoothly, noting the way the man froze at his words. He wasn't mistaken , but it would take the omega several seconds to reach the same conclusion, and he walked back to the shelves to grab another vial, the glass from the first being subtly pushed under the shelves with the toe of his shoe. The alpha had just paid for his purchase when he heard the quiet thump of a cane behind him and the entire set of ingredients used by omegas to lessen unaccompanied heats was dumped by his elbow on the counter.

"How do you know all that?" asked John, anger and curiosity warring inside of him. "I doubt I could afford any flatshare in the city, but I do need a job. You're a detective? But not police if you're looking for an assistant." Standing so close to this alpha was making his body react. _Stupid_. He silently told his instincts to behave, no matter how good the alpha smelled.

Carefully, the alpha laid out his observations, watching the expressions on the ex-soldier's face. He felt oddly nervous at the way the man's expression didn't change, more used to anger or outrage; he'd never been met with expressionlessness before. It was curious and new and intriguing and he was still waiting for that blank façade to break and to be punched, not convinced by the alpha-twaddle than an omega would never attack an alpha. When Sherlock finished, the unnamed man was silent, as was the attendant behind the counter, watching them with wide eyes.

John was amazed. He wet his lips, realizing that the alpha was waiting for him to speak. “That was brilliant,” he said finally, watching surprise form in the man’s eyes. He cracked a smile. “My name’s John Watson,” he said, offering his hand.

"Ah, Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock introduced in turn, blinking as he shook the offered hand. "You thought that was brilliant?" he couldn't help but ask, his hand lingering and the familiar tingle of a new tattoo spreading across his skin. He suspected it had something to do with having someone praise his deductions rather than deny or ridicule them, but just because John had accepted them once didn't mean he would continue to do so. The alpha ruthlessly quashed the sensation and finally let go, clearing his throat as he stepped back.

Blinking a bit, John continued to smile at him. He felt the shift on his skin and chalked it up to one of his tattoos moving at the very idea of having a human conversation. He’d barely spoken to anyone in months, after all, other than for the fruitless job search. “I do,” he said honestly, unaware he’d stopped leaning on his cane. The shopkeeper moved then, quickly bagging his purchases, still looking a bit wide-eyed between the two. John paid and tucked the brown bag under his arm. “Do you really think I could afford my share of the rent?” An unbound omega rooming with an unbound alpha was generally a bad idea, but if he saved his pennies then perhaps he could get a room during his heat; some places offered discounts for that sort of thing as a public health and safety measure.

"I know the owner. Did her a favour once and now she takes a bit off the rent. It will be affordable," Sherlock assured, walking to the door. He didn't even realise until after John had passed him and the sweet scent of the omega tickled his nose that it had been as natural as breathing to hold the door open for the other man and allow him through first, a courtesy rarely received by others, and even then it was only given to those he'd know a great deal of time. The sky outside was the same overly-cloudy that dominated London's spring, and when they turned to each other, the wind rustled the omega's hair into a rather attractive state. "We could take a cab there now," he suggested, slipping his purchases into his large coat pockets. He found himself eager to get the intriguing man into his territory, to pick him apart and see what made him tick, what made him find Sherlock's deductions 'brilliant' rather than a hundred other antonyms. And if he prefered going through his heats on his own, then there was a less-than-seven percent chance that he would call on the alpha for _that_ particular duty.

It was easy to follow Sherlock’s lead, John realized, going through the open door, and then getting into the cab. Not as if he had much to lose, after all. The flat was nice, if messy and he happily took the upstairs bedroom.

The over the next few days he learned about Sherlock and his cases. He was brilliant in his deductions, but the alpha was foolhardy and a few other words John could think of. A distinct lack of self preservation, at the very least, as they chased a suspect through dark London streets. The man suddenly turned and John felt the spark of oncoming magic. Well his own magic might well be broken, but he could sure as hell tackle the surprised criminal, making him miss and knocking his head against the hard ground.

Sherlock lowered his hand and let the counterspell he’d readied dissipate, feeling a bit startled by John’s quick reaction and unusual readiness to protect him. “That spell would have snapped your neck,” he commented lightly as he came up behind the omega, kneeling to cross the stunned criminal’s wrists behind his back and taking out the latest pair of cuffs he’d nicked from Lestrade’s pocket. John just gave a dismissive hum and stepped away, posture straight and sentinel-like, sharp eyes darting around for any other dangers. As the alpha clasped the metal around unresisting wrists, he felt his heart flutter and his skin tingle for the... well, he’d actually lost count how many times that had happened over the past week. The omega had gotten under his skin, affected him like no other human ever had, and even his scent was starting to appeal to the alpha the way he suspected omegas smelled to normal alphas. Even worse, he could smell the pheromones indicating an oncoming heat, and he wondered what John would do: ask for his assistance, weather it alone, or ask for the assistance of another alpha entirely. As he stepped back and hauled the criminal to his feet, he realised the latter made him feel ill.

John watched Lestrade put the criminal into his car. He looked at Sherlock. “I need to get some things and go for a few days. My heat’s coming on pretty quick.” His heart ached a bit as he looked at the alpha, but he told himself it was just the nearness of heat. Something shifted against his skin, near his wounded shoulder. He’d noticed the alpha watching him, but it was probably just his own pheromones. He didn’t dare screw this up by involving Sherlock in his heat. Besides, he knew what happened if he showed his skin. ”I’ll just get a room until this passes.”

“Why bother paying for another one when you have one at Baker Street?” Sherlock asked, frowning in confusion. “I won’t bother you if you do not wish me to.”

Blinking, John looked at him. He smiled. “All right then.”

By the next morning, John was in full heat. He curled up in his blankets, miserable. He could smell Sherlock downstairs and couldn’t decide if that made things better or worse. At least it was only for a few days. He grit his teeth, trying to simply bear it.

Sherlock had been surprised to find himself unable to leave his own home when John’s heat had started, filled with a strange need to remain and ensure that the omega was left untouched by outsiders. He logically knew that there was no one who was going to be barging into Baker Street demanding to knot his flatmate, not unless he opened every window in the house and put fans in front of each to blow John’s heat-scent out into the air. Still, he did not change out of his lounge clothes, nor did he even venture down the stairs to visit Mrs Hudson. By day two, he found it difficult to even stray beyond the bottom of the staircase. Late morning that same day, he realised that he had never seen the doctor, as he’d come to learn the surprising man also was, had never stocked up with water or food. For the first time in a long time, Sherlock spent hours in the kitchen for something other than an experiment, determined to make the omega as much nutritional food as he could. While he worked, he cleansed as many water bottles as he could and filled them, leaving them outside John’s room. When the last dish was completed and carried up the stairs, laid on the floor, he gave the door a short rap of his knuckles.

“John? I made you food and I brought your water. Please try to ingest some when you next have the opportunity!” he called through the wood. He knew he should leave, knew what an alpha’s pheromones could do to an omega in heat, knew what the scent of an omega-in-heat could do to an alpha, but so far, Sherlock had managed to put to the back of his mind how much he wanted that scent in his nose and that taste in his throat, and John had likewise managed to remain in his room, not fallen victim to a biological imperative to pierce himself on whatever alpha cock was closest, something the alpha knew his friend would regret should it occur, and would thus lose him the friendship he treasured above all else. There was no answer beyond the door and he rapped on it again. “John?”

Groaning, John dragged himself out of bed. He didn’t think about his naked state as he opened the door, just a bit. _Christ_ this alpha smelled good. He looked past the food, up to Sherlock’s face, though his stomach rumbled. A wave of desire rolled through his body and completely on instinct he grabbed the front of Sherlock’s robe and yanked him into a kiss.

For all that he'd heard of omega instincts during a heat, the kiss took the alpha completely by surprise. So much so that he responded without thought, pressing John against the doorframe and sweeping his tongue into the sweet mouth, chasing the taste of his omega. Then a hard erection rocked into his hip, and there was a sudden and dramatic increase of the scent of slick and of omega arousal and he could feel his own cock responding. He tore himself away, breath coming out in ragged pants, fighting every instinct in his body, and his mind, that told him to shove his friend to the floor and knot him until the omega's heat was relieved, they were bonded, and John was full of his seed. It wasn’t something the man had shown any signs of wanting before his heat and it something that the alpha would never force on anyone, least of all the one person he loved. There was a desperate noise and, for once, Sherlock was unable to identify who it came from, too busy wrangling himself back under control. Once he'd felt that he managed, the lanky detective turned and ducked, pressing his shoulder into John's stomach as he held one wrist, hoisting the shorter man into the air and carrying him to his bed so he could dump him on it. Bright blue eyes stared up at him and thighs pale compared to the rest of John's skin spread invitingly, increasing the scent of slick in the air. Sherlock's jaw clamped shut, and then he turned and left, quietly closing the door behind him.

John stared at the door, shocked for two heartbeats. Then everything hit him at once, and he curled up into a ball, punching the bed. That wasn’t good enough. He grabbed the lamp from the endtable and hurtled it against the wall. _Not good enough_. The only alpha he’d ever wanted to bond with and he was too broken, too beyond repair. Part of his brain knew it was _Sherlock_ , and that their friendship was too important to waste on something vulgar like mating. But that didn’t stop the tears stinging his eyes as he looked for something else to throw.

The alpha paused at the bottom of the stairs at the sound of destruction coming from the room he'd just left. His instincts screamed that another was coming for his omega, that his omega was fighting off an intruder come to challenge Sherlock's claim. But his logical mind recognised the sounds of a solo occupant, and the lack of an unknown (unwelcome) scent only enforced the knowledge that they were alone in their home, that the only danger to his friend was Sherlock himself. And John's body. Hm. John's body. John's naked body. Which it only now registered that something was not-quite-right about it, besides the bullet wound. Eager to dig into his mind to distract himself from the temptation three metres from his head, the alpha silently prowled the flat as he put all his attention on the matter. It took him two hours to realise none of John's tattoos had moved, thirty milliseconds to diagnose it as psychosomatic, three seconds to realise what he'd done to fix the ex-soldier's leg hadn't helped his magic a whit, and the remainder of his flatmate's heat to come to terms with the fact that love was _not_ enough to fix the ones you loved, no matter how much you wished for the power.

John emerged from his room late the next morning. He'd barely slept, if at all, and went to the shower first, running it as hot as he could stand to wash away the last of his heat. He dressed in the steam-filled bathroom, buttoning his shirt all the way up. Emerging, he said nothing, but went straight to the tea kettle. Sherlock was on the couch, but John could feel him watching. Silently he wondered if the alpha had categorized all the ways he was _wrong_ yet. His heart was heavy, but he knew he was a fool. Sherlock had only responded because of the pheromones. Opening the fridge he found the milk was gone again. With a sigh he went to grab his coat, not noticing the hint of a limp had returned. "I'm going to the shop."

Sherlock didn’t bother to stop John. But as soon as he left, the alpha was up off the couch, dressing in a flurry, the tattoos covering his skin as familiar to him as Baker Street’s wallpaper. Something on his bicep fluttered, but he ignored it in favour of dashing to the omega’s room. As expected, it was in absolute disarray: the bedside table was knocked over, the lamp from it was in shards against the opposite wall, there were clothes everywhere, and the only thing he could smell was the scent of John’s heat. It made him waver on his feet, the way it overwhelmed him, the way he wanted to just lay among the still-dirty sheets and roll around, cover himself with his flatmate’s scent and soak enough of his into the sheets to mark the other in his scent in return. But he knew that, even if it took him a while, the doctor would return, and Sherlock had things to do before the other man could come back. He turned on his heel, and was out the doors of the flat with a flutter of his coat.

John came home sometime later. He grabbed a cup of tea and headed up to his room. He stopped in the doorway and stared. The room had been cleaned up. He blushed as he saw the made bed with clean sheets and the new lamp. Mrs. Hudson must have come up here. He should have taken care of that himself before he left. With a sigh he went back downstairs.

He was grateful when a case demanded his detective's attention. And the man was still brilliant. Probably he'd noticed John was making an effort to hide his omega scent. His magic was still broken, of course, but Sherlock excelled at his the way he did everything else. Even if a John had to live like a Mundane the rest of his life, he'd be glad to work by Sherlock's side. And if he sometimes dreamed of the alpha, or stole surreptitious sniffs of his scarf, well that was his own business. He couldn't risk damaging the best thing that had ever happened to him. Already he was setting aside funds for his next heat; no point putting the man through that again, he'd just get a room. 

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

More and more everyday did his friend weigh on Sherlock’s mind. He wanted nothing more than to wrap the omega in his scent and his body in his arms. It was hateful; more so because it was not reciprocated than because it was felt at all. Despite his best attempts to get the doctor to stay at home, John spent his next heat in a rented safe room. Sherlock became an absolute wreck during his absence, barely able to handle the thought that his in-heat omega was where he was not, and the flat had been a disaster when the soldier had returned, but the earful he got for the state of things didn't matter as it meant he had the other's attention on him at all. Now they were two weeks past that, two weeks until the next one, and he had a case to distract him from thoughts that he didn't know how long he would be able to take his omega leaving for every heat.

"Oh my _gawd_ ~! _You_ stop it!" the high-pitched voice of his current questionee giggled. The female omega was blushing and covering her mouth with her hands, looking up at him through her eyelashes in a way she likely thought was coy and becoming. Sherlock could only be happy that whatever inside him that was attracted to John Watson was not attracted to anyone else, regardless of gender or secondgender. His eyes flitted to over his shoulder, taking in the drawn expression and tense lines of his friend's body, unusual for his people-oriented doctor. He managed to contain his frown as he turned his attention back to the disgustingly-fawning woman.

John was appalled. He knew Sherlock was only doing this for the case, but it couldn’t stop the bile and anger boiling in his stomach. The omega was pretty, the one visible tattoo on her arm moving slowly in the dim light of the club as she flirted mercilessly with the one alpha he would choose. Sherlock gave her a smile and John suddenly excused himself. He headed for the bar, only to change his mind and step out into the night, leaning against the cool bricks. He was afraid he was going to be sick.

 _Get ahold of yourself, Watson_. He turned and rested his forehead against the bricks, counting to ten, then to twenty. He felt that shifting on his shoulder again and rubbed it, but as he looked at his fingers, he knew there was no magic there.

Shoving aside the self-pity, he straightened and went back into the club. Sherlock needed him. As a friend, as a foil. Not as some fawning omega that did whatever biology demanded. It was bad enough he couldn't help him three days a month while he had his heats. John shook his head and ordered a strong drink, glaring daggers at the other omega when Sherlock leaned in to say something quietly to her.

Suddenly, he noticed a trio of men stepping purposefully into the club. They looked like they were up to no good, and after looking around a moment, they headed straight for Sherlock. John left his drink and moved to intercept them, standing between them and the detective. “Evening there, gents.”

The sensation of his lips brushing the woman's ear made him want to rip the strips of flesh from his face and burn them. Another point in John's unknown favour, whose kiss had made him crave more so much to the point that he dreamed of it when he did manage to sleep; he was so used to being disgusted by human touch that it left him hard and flustered and confused when he woke. Movement to the side caught his eye, and he found his brave soldier standing up to three alphas, ones he believed belonged to the mob boss he suspected committed the crime he was investigating. The one whose mate he was currently flirting with. Not that she was much of a mate: the bondbite on her neck had clearly not been renewed in weeks, and the tattoo that would have appeared at its creation, a cattle brand in the shape of the letter 'D', was equally faded and stretched as far from the bondbite as it could get without leaving her neck. More than her flirting back with him, both of those things pointed to her absolute disinterest in her mate and her desire to find a new alpha. Something which her current mate knew the way those minions John was stalling were glaring at him as if they'd like nothing more than to beat him to death. Luckily, even if the omega's alpha did own this club, as Sherlock believed the man did, he would still have to pull the detective into private to do so. And that's all the genius needed.

“You should know your place,” growled one of the alphas at John.

John simply smiled at him, easy on his feet. “My place is right here,” he said as if discussing the weather.

One of them moved to shove him out of the way. The soldier went with the motion only to come up and clock the man, sending him stumbling back. One of the others grabbed at him and John sincerely hoped Sherlock had what he needed because three on one weren’t the best odds on a good day. While he struggled with one, he felt a flash of pain and the sizzle of magic and glanced down to see a deep cut on his upper bicep. _That would need stitches_.

Sherlock was out of his seat before he he knew that he’d even abandoned the witness, magic flaring and sharpening in preparation for attack. His skin felt on fire at the sight of his omega’s blood and at the thought that someone had harmed his doctor. And not just someone--another alpha. One whose arm was raising, deadly magic taking shape at his fingertips. Quick as lightning, Sherlock whipped around to grab the large bottle of alcohol the omega had had delivered to their table some time ago, and he quickly hurtled it through the air, followed by a whispered Stun spell. Caught by surprise, the alphas only thought to block the physical object, never realising he’d lobbied a metaphysical attack at the same time.

John was surprised by how quickly Sherlock reacted, then surprised all over again when the stun spell knocked them all to the floor and left him dizzy. Staggering to his feet, he could see Sherlock preparing another spell, rage in his eyes. For a moment John was frozen, surprised by a ferocity he’d never seen. People in the club had scattered at the sudden fight, and the vicious bouncer was headed their way. “Come on,” he muttered, grabbing Sherlock’s wrist and tugging him towards the back exit.

He could feel magic skittering through Sherlock’s arm. It made him tingle, wonder what it would feel like to have that over and inside of him. Stupid thoughts, especially at a time like this, but he found his body reacting anyway. John hoped Sherlock wouldn’t notice as they came free of the club and headed down the alley.

As scientifically impossible as he knew it was, the alpha could feel his blood practically humming in his veins from adrenaline and protective, vengeful fury. The touch of John's hand on his flesh, wrapped around his wrist, was almost more electrifying than the whispers of his own magic skittering across his tattoo-strewn skin. It was leaving him over-sensitised, as most uncommon things across his tattoos tended to do; even the touch of his own hands across his tattoos was so rare that it tended to make him hard. As did the scent of John's arousal.

Sherlock jerked to a sudden stop, surprising John into tripping into him. John who smelled _aroused_. The alpha took a deep drag into his lungs and tried to control the thought that that arousal was for the alphas inside. He failed. John was shoved up against the wall a split second later, sandwiched between Sherlock's hard body and equally unforgiving brick.

"I can smell you," he growled, dragging his nose across the strong jawline and down a strained neck. "Your arousal; your lust. What has you so turned on, John? Which alpha was it? The one who touched you? Is that what turns you on? A bit of--" he shoved hard against his flatmate, filled with a possessive madness, "--roughing up?" he finished, every nerve on fire and every instinct screaming to put a claim on what was his before another alpha could.

John's breath caught as he bit back a moan. He wanted to surrender, feel that hard cock inside of him instead of against his hip. But he couldn’t, because then Sherlock would see and would remember why he’d rejected him. “Sherlock I’m not some bloody fawning omega,” he growled. “You dont want me, it’s just your instincts.” His heart ached again as he spat out the words, but it was nonetheless true. He loved the weight of him against his body, barely giving him room to breathe. He loved the feel of Sherlock’s breath on his skin. This was doing nothing to relieve his erection, if anything it grew thicker, damp growing between his thighs.

The alpha's control was frustratingly frayed, only fraying further with the growing scent of arousal and slick in his nose and with the need to get John home and into their territory. If those imbeciles from inside the club tried to follow them and attack them, then Sherlock would murder them and bond his omega against the wall, covered in the blood of the contenders his addled, feral mind took the other alphas as. Something which he very much doubted his good doctor would much approve of. "I know you're not some bloody fawning omega," he snapped, baring his teeth. "I don't want some bloody fawning omega as my mate. What I want is _you_ and we are going home right now so I can _take_ you." He rocked his pelvis forward, frotting his erection aggressively into the shorter man's belly and feeling the answering buck into where his thigh was pressed between the omega's. "I'll put my marks over your scent gland so everyone will know that you're _mine_. I can hardly wait to see my tattoo on your neck," he admitted hungrily, releasing one shoulder to scrape his nails down the taut skin, envisioning his bondbite but unable to even guess what tattoo may take shape below and around it.

John shivered and flushed, mind and body still trying to catch up. "You... want me? But before... I'm damaged..." He wanted to believe, desperately. But he knew what happened when alphas saw his stilled skin. And besides, he still had a deep gash on his arm that needed tending. If he had magic he could bind it with words... but he knew how well that worked.

The detective scoffed. "Your arm?" he asked derisively. "An excuse." He nearly broke the ex-soldier's coat zipper, ripping it down and shoving the fabric away. He did the same to the button up, ignoring John's startled noises and flapping hands as he exposed the tan skin of a shoulder and upper arm. There was a tattoo there, a coat of arms from his time in the military, but he ignored it to study the sluggishly bleeding wound. There was a good deal of medical information and spells he'd deleted when Baker Street had gained a second occupant, but there were still a few base spells hidden in his mind. After a moment of thought, and a brief interruption where the club's back door slammed open and Sherlock tensed as his instincts flipped to protect-and-defend mode before it turned out to just be a couple of drunk patrons, he whispered a spell and watched as threads of John's shirt pulled away from the rest of the fabric to form a bandage. Momentarily satisfied, he stood back and tugged shirt and coat back into place. "Baker Street. Now. You can sew that back up at home and then I want you naked and in my bed. Now, do you have any _actual_ objections to being bonded by the end of the night or can we get on with it?"

John's heart thumped in his chest. "No," he said after a moment, then swallowed hard. "No objections at all."

Sherlock let him off the wall and a whine escaped his throat at the loss. Then he was being pulled down the alley and all but thrown into a cab. John nearly climbed into the alpha's lap, public be damned, claiming those lips and praying that this time Sherlock wouldn't run. His heart couldn't take being rejected a second time.

The alpha wrapped his arms around his omega's waist, making a pleased sound at the bold initiative and returning the kiss with equal, if less desperate, fervour. They may not have been back in their own territory yet, and the cab was full of the scent of others, but the presence of a sole other, and a beta at that, put him at ease enough to relax enough to return the amorous affections. For long minutes, the ride was spent in silence, in frantic kisses that turned slow and soft and sweet, in frantic frotting that turned into gentle rocking into one another. "You're lucky," Sherlock breathed against John's lips, enjoying the dazed, glassy look in dilated, bright blue eyes. "If I didn't need to be in our territory to properly imprint my scent, I would bond you right here." He darted forward and nipped sharply at his omega's plump, kiss-reddened lower lip. "Next time, you won't have that excuse," he promised.

John shivered as the cab came to a stop. He darted upstairs while Sherlock paid and took a breath once he was back in the flat. Their flat. With trembling fingers he unzipped his coat. He could hear Sherlock hurrying up the stairs and took a few deep breaths. He wanted this, had longed for this. All he could hope was that Sherlock would stay this time. The detective came through the door and John buried his worries to smile up at him. Lust and desire were writ large on his face, even before he crowded John against the wall and took greedy kisses the omega was happy to give.

This, having John surrounded by their scents, primarily _Sherlock's_ scent, made him even more desperate to have his omega under him, the alpha's very scent soaking into the tan skin. "Toilet. Wound. _Now_ ," he growled, turning the doctor around and pressing him into the room. Watching the ex-soldier strip of his jacket and his shirt, eyes darting to Sherlock in the mirror repeatedly. The alpha rocked forward on the balls of his feet, tempted to go in after him and slowly peel away his clothes, mouth--lips, teeth, and tongue--following everywhere his fingers touched. "Hurry," he nearly snarled, turning in a flurry of his coat. He shed his own clothes on the way there, leaving things where they dropped, exposing inch by inch of tattooed skin, the art of which was swirling more wildly than it had in years. As he sprawled completely bare on the bed, waiting for his soon-to-be lover, he put his mind to something a bit distracting to keep from going back into the toilet and prematurely dragging the doctor to the bedroom: what might appear on his skin as a result of their mating, and John's reaction to his tattoos, none of which his flatmate had, as of yet, seen.

Stitching a wound, that John could do. He opened his kit and moved to the mirror. He’d barely looked at his body in months, and even now his eyes skittered past the unmoving tattoos to the gash on his arm. Sherlock was probably covered in tattoos, he thought as he quickly got to work. Someone that clever and brilliant. He swallowed back the fears that said _not good enough_. Obviously, as Sherlock would say, he was wanted. And if it was only instincts, then all he could do was hope that the alpha wouldn’t regret it once they were bonded.

The thought of Sherlock filling him made his cock twitch. Something else caught his eyes in the mirror. There was a new tattoo on his shoulder, and it had moved at the thought of Sherlock. He couldn’t quite tell what it was, and it had settled for now with the others. Well, he could deal with that later. For now, he tied off the stitches and washed his hands.

Taking a deep breath, John opened the door to the bedroom. Sherlock lay back on the bed, eyes gone distant, but snapping into focus as John entered. Sure enough he was covered wrists to ankles in all sorts of tattoos. They buzzed with their own energy, lending an extra crackle of potential magic to the room. It made John want to cover his broken self up and just go. Instead he moved towards the bed. “Beautiful,” he said softly.

Basking in the gaze of his omega, Sherlock made sure to return the favour as the man moved closer to the bed, eyes tracing the details of visible, unmoving tattoos. One in particular held his attention: a realistic heart directly above where the real one would be. The detective wondered if he could have it beating by the end of the night. If he could trick his doctor's magic, his skin, into forgetting that it had been injured. John stopped right at the edge of the bed, and stayed there, body tense and expression unsure. With an annoyed huff, Sherlock jerked up to wrap his arms around a hard waist gone soft on the outside and pulled the man to the bed, twisting his own spine to get his omega's back to the sheets. The man was wounded; no sense in making him do something to aggravate such beautiful stitch work. Or that angry-looking scar from the bullet that had delivered the soldier to him. With a wicked grin, the genius made sure that hips were pinned by his own and that wrists were pinned to the bed, and then he ducked his head to get his lips and teeth on the puckered and pitted scar.

John cried out and jerked against him, eyes screwing tightly shut. _Oh God_. It had been so long since anyone besides himself had touched his skin, and none of the others had even attempted to touch the scar. He opened himself for Sherlock, broken moans falling from his lips. The man was taking what was broken and damaged and worshiping it and tears stung John’s eyes. Unbidden he remembered his first heat back and the alpha that looked at him and said he just couldn’t, even after rolling him onto his stomach. But this one could and more than that, wanted to.

“Please, Sherlock….I haven’t been knotted in so long…” he could admit his need here. And he did want to bond, wanted to always protect this madman and know that he was safe in his bed. Wanted to always be by his side, maybe one day carry his children. It felt like his whole life had been leading to this moment.

"Shhh," the genius whispered, keeping John's limbs still as he finally moved away from the scar, moving slowly, but quite clearly, down the omega's sternum. The writhing of the man beneath him turned into a full-body arch when he took the short but thick cock into his mouth, humming in delight at the taste. When John's hands scrambled desperately for a grip in the sheets, Sherlock released them to relocate one palm to the doctor's pelvis, pressing down firmly to centre him, and the other he slid between parted thighs, wasting no time in pressing a finger into the drenched hole. His omega shouted in pleasure and surprise as the alpha continued to work his finger in and out, loosening the hole.

"God, Sherlock!" John cried. He'd forgotten how good it could feel, didn't think it had ever felt so good. He turned his head, gulping lungfuls of the alpha's scent, rubbing his own against the sheets. All his insecurity seemed to fly away as Sherlock worked him open. There was desperate need, but there was also tenderness. His thighs spread wider, welcoming his lover. One hand found it's way to Sherlock's curls and gripped his hair tightly.

Sherlock grinned at the tight grasp of his soldier's fingers in his hair and nipped at the sensitive, red glans, loving the way the man's breath hitched in his throat and the way his arse tightened around the third finger pressing in alongside the first two. He crooked his fingers, searching, and as soon as he found what he was looking for, John's throaty moan announced his alpha's success to the quiet room and the busy world outside the open window. But not long after, he could feel the body below him tense in preparation for an orgasm. Well, that wouldn't do. He sat back on his heels, slowly releasing the throbbing cock from the suction of his mouth and replacing it with his slick-drenched fingers, moaning and eyes fluttering at the flavour. It was something he would have to explore, in great detail, later, but for now, there was something just a bit more important. The alpha shuffled forward on his knees, sliding his hips between the parted thighs, and rubbed the tip of his leaking cock against the slightly open hole, mouth already dry at the thought of that heat around him, when fingertips to his hip bones made pause, blinking up in concern at bright blue eyes.

John licked his lips, not wanting to break the moment, but needing to. "Condom," he said quietly. Sherlock looked confused and a little hurt. "I'm not on birth control," he said.

He could see the alpha's emotions warring within him. "I'll get on it, but there hasn't been any need... Maybe eventually we can..." The doubts started bubbling up again and his hands fell by his side, clenching nervously.

He knew John was right, but for a long moment, it was all Sherlock could do to not follow his instincts to mount and knot and bite and breed. Finally, he was able to wrangle his control back from the more feral side of his mind, and he practically threw his body across his omega's to reach the bedside table's drawer, ignoring the loud "Oof!" his action had supposedly caused as he fished around for the little foil-backed square. "No, you're quite right," he agreed, scrambling back into place with his prize and a victorious grin. "It's not time for children just yet." He ripped open the packet and rolled the condom down his cock, unable to resist stroking himself. "But when you're ready, I'm going to fill you full of as many children as you'll let me," he growled, voice thick with promise.

John's throat was dry. "Yes," he whispered, offering himself. Sherlock loomed over him, watching his face as he thrust home. The omega arched and cried out. _Full_. And the knot was only beginning to swell. He rocked up to meet his thrusts, needing. Magic hummed between them, lightning in his veins.

There was something forming on John’s neck, right where he was eying in preparation to bite, but he was moving too hard and too fast, unable to slow or be gentle right now, in order to look closer at it. His omega was tight, hot, and so so slick around him, sucking him back in every time he pulled out, and there was the flicker of the ex-soldier’s magic awakening to play with where Sherlock’s raced across their naked skin. But as much force as he was using to press his growing knot into his flatmate’s arse, said flatmate was anything but still, clawing at his back and raising his hips to meet Sherlock’s thrusts. The alpha could almost imagine his canines tingling, so anxious he was to get them into his omega’s neck. It wouldn’t be long--both of were on a razor’s edge.

John angled his head, craving his alpha’s bite. He could feel a new tattoo forming on his skin already and wondered what it would be. Sherlock slammed his knot into him and John cried out, coming hard, his mate’s teeth on him a moment later, then the euphoria of the bondbite. His whole body hummed as Sherlock ground into him. If he wasn’t wearing the condom his seed would be deep inside his lover. For the first time in his adult life, John really wondered what it would be like to have kids.

Despite the overwhelming pleasure of sinking his teeth into his new mate’s neck and the swell of his knot inside his new mate, the bloom of a new tattoo on his neck, the same location he’d just bitten John, was unmistakable. But it did get lost for a moment in the wash of orgasmic pleasure. He tightened his jaw and growled, rolling his hips, pressing his knot just a little deeper with each rotation. When he finally pulled back, licking blood from his lips, his eyes hungrily sought out the new mark on John’s neck.

Chemical equations snaked out from each of the four points left by Sherlock’s canines: adrenaline, dopamine, oxytocin, and... honey? He was entranced by the sight of the written molecule formulas across his mate’s skin, and to be something that was so _him_ while still being so _them_ was breathtaking. One hand rose and it took him a long minute of tracing the formulas with a finger to realise that finger was trembling. And then the second wave of his orgasm hit and he groaned, burying his face in the newly marked neck.

John buried his hands in Sherlock’s hair, eyes closed. This was _them_. Tears stung his eyes at the enormity of it all. “I love you,” he whispered. It was true though, it had been true for months. Probably it had been true since that first meeting. There was no one else he wanted but this man in his arms.

“I...” Sherlock started to say and then trailed off. ‘Love’ didn’t begin to cover what he felt for John Watson. ‘I love you’ was not a befitting phrase to impart on the man that meant more to him than anything else in life. “ _John_ ,” he whispered brokenly against his bondbite.

Squeezing him, John knew exactly what he meant. He nosed his hair and simply held him, running a soothing hand down his back. Finally his knot released, but neither of them moved, simply content to be.

A bit later, when his new mate (and didn't that thought just make him develop temporary arrhythmia) was fast asleep, Sherlock pulled his soft cock free from where it had been nestled in John's arse and stealthily extracted himself from the ex-soldier's clingy embrace. He wrinkled his nose in annoyance at the loss of his omega's warmth and in disgust at the uncomfortable, sticky sensation of dried slick spanning from belly to upper thigh. It was the best way he’d ever woken up. When he walked into the toilet for a cloth to clean up himself and John with, two things caught his attention in the mirror: the unfamiliar and yet natural grin on his face, and an anomaly in the tattoos around his neck. He frowned and leaned in closer, narrowing his eyes at what looked like a [Caduceus](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caduceus) integrated seamlessly into his existing marks. Upon closer look, the staff in the centre of twined serpents was a bullet, and the serpents themselves were vines, their heads each a honeysuckle blossom. Befitting considering the fauna’s usual guest, the hummingbird, which was how his heart felt in his chest right now at the thought that his mate had left his mark on him as surely as he’d left a mark on his mate.

John woke, realizing the comfortable weight of his alpha was gone. There was a brief moment of panic, before he saw that Sherlock was in the loo. Carefully, he got out of bed and padded to the doorway. The detective was leaning into the mirror, examining his reflection. After a moment of hesitation, John squared his shoulders and moved to join him, looking at his own new mark. Silently, he reached over and took Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock pulled his mate in front of himself and dropped his chin to the straight, solid shoulder. He wrapped one arm around the man’s waist, taking a moment to relax in the comfort and heat of skin-to-skin contact before raising a finger to trace over the first equation. “Dopamine,” he murmured into his mate’s ear, delighting in the tremor that wracked his omega’s spine at the first whisper. “Adrenaline,” he continued, the tip of his finger moving to the next. “Oxytocin. Honey,” he finished, following the last trace of his finger with his tongue. “A mix of us, displayed in a design of my territory.” He raised their combined hands, guiding one of John’s fingers to open and pressed it to his new mark. “And a mix of us displayed in a design of your territory.” His voice was dark and low, possessive, his eyes dilated in his reflection. It was satisfying to see his mate’s eyes do the same.

John’s mouth was dry as he licked his lips. This was perfect. Absolutely perfect. All he needed and wanted was right here. There was the faint hum of magic in his skin, but his tattoos were still. And for the first time in a long time, that was okay. Smiling, he rocked back against the growing erection behind him, watching Sherlock’s eyes in the mirror.

Sherlock released a low growl and pressed a palm to the space between his mate’s shoulder blades, gently forcing his torso down and parallel to the sink. Both of them were still as naked as they’d been the night before and John’s arse where it rubbed against his erection was already feeling slick. He loosed a low sound, something between a growl of satisfaction and a hum of approval as he rocked his hips forward, dragging the tip of his cock against the rim of his omega’s hole. “My mate,” he whispered, overcome with sentiment for this small, unassuming person who’d taken over his life. He prevented his doctor from replying by sliding inside and draping his chest over the omega’s back, nipping at his marks on the otherwise smooth neck. “Mine,” he whispered with a deliberate nip.

“Yours,” agreed John, revelling in the feeling of his alpha inside and round him. Sherlock moved slowly and as John looked back at the mirror he saw the heart on his chest begin to beat.

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, please leave us a review, and don't forget to drop by tumblr to say 'hi' to [Mer](http://merindab.tumblr.com/) and [Kat](http://themadkatter13-fanfiction.tumblr.com/).


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